


Beloved

by At_a_klance (TomAyto10)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Character Death, Eventual Smut, JuLance Month, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV First Person, Smut, Underage Kissing, Violence, War, tsoa au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-31 21:34:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomAyto10/pseuds/At_a_klance
Summary: "Beloved," he told me. I drew in breath, shaking under his gaze, pleasure sweeping through my body at the love in his eyes. "Lance, my beloved.""Beloved." I told him, and watched, feeling strong and powerful as he shook beneath me, as he gasped at my words. I wanted to kiss him, hold him close until I felt like he was another part of me. He was my heart beating in my chest. I spoke to him, my sun, my love. "Lance, my beloved."





	1. Son of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if there is another work of the same Alternate Universe for Klance. In my quick search, I came up with nothing. Nevertheless, this will be done quick, almost as if my journal entries during this month as we celebrate Lance, so I hope someone else will one day give this idea some real merit.  
> Thank you.  
> Please be warned this is extremely self indulgent, and I will wax poetry about Lance. It is in my nature.  
> Also, this will follow close to the book, less of the canon. You have been warned.

I was born in the hottest most sweltering day of that year. Three cows from the royal farmlands had died from the lack of water, their tongues grey and dry, rolled from their wide mouth as they lay still on the grassy land. 

The castle servants has all sacrificed to the god of the Sun, Helios, praying for mercy and clouds. Blood of doves and snow white chickens pockmarked the dirt by servants quarters, a pyre blazed, burning thick, black smoke lifting to bathe the heavens in inky darkness 

This was the day I was born. 

I hate the sun, deep within my heart. I hate the heat and I hate sweat gathering slick over my skin to this day. I believe it's because I was born on the day the sun burned the land. 

My mother pushed me from her body silently, dark fingers clutching fine soft linens.

My father was not present. He did not deem me worthy to look at until a month from my birth. 

The servants tell me that they were frightened when I was retrieved from my mother’s heaving figure. My face was covered in dark marks, like a blood splatter across the wall of the butcher’s slaughterhouse. There was no beauty in me.

My mother had not cared. She had pulled me close, and wept and called my name. 

 

Not many knew of this name, said in my mother’s tongue,  _ Lance _ , whispered to me for the first five year of my childhood. 

My mother, the daughter of a nobleman on beautiful island south of Athens, was breathtakingly beautiful, even with her skin the color of warmed caramel, her hair darker then obsidian that was traded like gold. Her eyes, which she received from her father, were blue like the sky after a thunderous storm. She hated them and mourned that I also inherited them. He was a cruel man that had taken her mother by force, ravaged her one bitter night and left her for dead. 

‘Our people are strong’ she had told me, filling me with pride before I understood what pride was. ‘My mother lived, and she bore me. I shall be as strong as her.’

 

She was not. She died when I was eight. 

 

My father had no love for me. I was ugly, but more than ugly, I was weak. 

My mother had been slender and beautiful, thin ankle bones and wrists that flicked out elegantly, her waist small and sweet. I was growing to be the same. Small, and delicate, just not in any way beautiful. My face was my shame, the freckles that covered my cheeks and nose looked as if someone had pushed me in the dirt and held me there until my skin took on the color, the specks of mud ingrained into face. 

My father perhaps would not have cared if I was a warrior prince, if his blood burned through my veins as it did through him. Perhaps, he would have loved me if I had any leanings to the sword. 

I soon was found to be a disappointment. 

 

My father hosted games at our palace, calling upon all the kings, far and wide. Sons of kings, princes and noblemen would come and play games, pitting against each other in a show of brutish pride. 

I was not strong, but I was quick. At eight years old, my legs were long and thin, carried me far, quickly and quietly, my hips and torso small and thin. I would surely win in the races, even against the strongest of the princes.

For once, I was excited to meet my father's expectations, I looked forward to finally have eyes on me, not for my ugliness but for the speed of my legs. 

The morning of the games, my mother passed. 

I had not seen her in weeks, my father kept me from her, telling me that she was sick and he did not wish for me to catch what was ailing her. I had been so blinded by the chance to impress my father, I had not objected. I only knew of her death because I ventured into the kitchen and saw the head cook grinding herbs, setting out oils and beautiful dried flowers. 

I knew of death, and I recognized the array of ingredients. 

I knew, even at eight, that she was gone. 

The head cook crouched down to me and met my eyes, a large fat man who smelled of pig fat. He looked at me with such pity. I felt tears spring forth even as I asked. 

He patted my head and led me to the room where servants were cleaning her body, her brown skin pale and sickly. She thin enough that I could see all the bones of her ribs, the skin covering her hips looked like wet stretched cowhide prepared for curing. Her lips cracked, dry and bleeding. Years later, when I helped victims of a divine plague, I saw that when humans vomited enough, they would burn their lips. 

I sobbed, cried until it felt like all the water in my body spilled from my thin frail shaking figure. They tried to drag me from the body. I refused. 

The king, busy with greeting the visiting royals, had no time for me and my grief, nor for a moment of respect for his deceased wife. He told the slaves and servants I was to be dressed and prepared for the feast and games or he would punish  _ them _ .

I did not resist. They bathed my skin and dressed me. I was limp in their hands, a frail dying thing that wept ceaselessly.

Even when they brought me into the hall, to be seen by the kings and their sons, I did not stop. 

Before them, my father grimaced and growled, furious of my behavior. I saw violence grow in him, saw him thicken with murderous hate. I was not afraid of him, though. I didn't know him enough to hate him, nor to love him, nor to fear him. 

He slapped me across the face so hard I felt my bones shake and ache down to my feet. Pain bloomed over my jaw, I tasted blood from the inside of my cheek as it caught between my teeth. 

I made no sound, sunk to the floor, still grieving my dead mother.

He sent me away and I did not see the games. 

I mourned, for I was the only one who had loved her. I mourned because she was beautiful and kind and had been ruined by a man who was a scourge upon the earth. I mourned because I had cared more for my father's distant nod of approval instead of her loving warmth and sweet kisses.

 

The games went on without me. I didn't watch from my room, slept and wept and slept more.

I heard of the winners, the son of Peleus winning even the adult races. He was my age. I could not comprehend it.

The Kings began to leave after the grand festival held on the 10th day, a week after they had arrived. 

No one had time for me, everyone busy with the festivities. 

I sang quietly, the songs my mother had taught me. I had not been allowed to be at her pyre. I had not yet seen her gravestone. It was my punishment for feeling the death of my mother so publicly.

So,I sang for her, sweetly and soft, until Nyx pulled the darkness over me.

Restless from my days of quarantine, I slipped from room and into the garden in that last night. I could still hear the loud jarring voices that rumbled from the grandhall, and I hated them for their joy.

 

I paused when I saw him, slim shoulders lit up in the moonlight. I tried to hold my breath and sneak away but he turned quickly, not looking surprised at my sudden appearance.

My breath was stolen from me. 

Here, before my eyes, was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. While true I had not seen much of other boys my age, this beauty had to be from the gods. 

His hair was as dark as the night, as if Nyx had weaved darkness in every strand. It hung in a ruffled elegant mess atop his head. His face was like moonlight, and when he turned to look at me I felt as if I should retreat into the shadows. 

His eyes is what captured me, violet like the flowers that grew wild in spring. 

I felt unworthy. My face was ugly, bruised and splotchy, my skin dry from my week of crying and my tunic ruined. I wanted to flee.

“Oh” he said, his voice almost melodious. 

“You're the Prince.”

I nodded, wanting to look away but I couldn't bare to. I had nothing to say. He frowned, tilting his head and regarding me. 

“You have a strange face.” He said. I finally turned, face ablaze with shame in the presence of his beauty. I knew of tragedy of my face, he did not need to tell me.

“I shall be going now.” I gritted out, turning from his beautiful pale skin and divine violet eyes.

He did not allow me to go, instead stepped forth, hindering my path. 

“I did not mean it in a bad way.” He said, but he did not sound apologetic.

I would not look at him. I could not.

The silence overtook us, seawaves over sand. 

“Why did you cry? When you came on that first day, you cried. Why?” he asked boldly.

I looked at him, blinking back the wetness of my eyes, always there even after a week of it. 

“My mother died the day you arrived.”

He nodded, as if this made sense. 

Then; “I'm sorry”

It was simple, those words, perhaps said as an afterthought but they hit me, and I began to tremble. Something must've happened to my face for he looked panicked suddenly. The tears fell from me again, even when I thought I had none left.

My mother was the only one who loved me, and I understood that I felt the loss of it. Would anyone ever love me again?

I covered my face to muffle my noise of pain, dropping to my haunches. 

I was alone in this world. I finally understood why I was so wracked with grief. I loved my mother, yes, but in part I somehow knew that I was now alone. 

No one would mourn me if I died tomorrow.

The boy, the beautiful breathtaking boy, knelt besides me, mummering something I could not hear. He touched me upon the shoulder, my tattered dirty tunic shifting under his touch.

“Please do not cry.” He said, sounding shocked and lost.

“I'm sorry” I said, uncovering my face. It was the last of my tears, and I went still and quiet, shuddering. I had to say goodbye. Tomorrow, I would venture up the hill and touch her gravestone. I would tell her I loved her, that I hoped that she would forgive me, and that I would search for her in the shade when I too passed the river. 

“It's fine if you cry. I think maybe, if my mother could die, I would perhaps cry too.”

I didn't understand him, he spoke oddly, stilted so I inclined my head. 

“My apologies, Prince. I did not mean to make a fool of myself.”

The boy looked at me, and I had to hold his gaze, even with my eyes red and snot dripping from my nose. 

“I don't like to see you cry” he said, a declaration, as he reached forward and  clutched my hands. “I feel like I should protect you. When you father struck you, I became so upset. I have never been that angered before. I hated him for it. I still hate him for it.” He touched my cheek, where the bruise was dark and blotched but the swelling gone. “Does it hurt still?”

“No.” I lied. I didn't want him to think I was weak, something to be protected. I didn't want anyone to want to protect me. He traced my skin, and I let him as he touched the freckles that filled my nose and cheeks.

“I like your face.” He declared, and I startled, then wiping away tears, I smiled at him. “Thank you.” I was grateful for his kindness, for his words, for the hand that clutched at mine. 

He stared at me, as if I had said something profound. I moved the subject wanting to stop dwelling in such sad thoughts.

“I heard you won the races. I was supposed take part.” He started and the boy looked away, frowning at something. 

“I did win. It was too easy.” He snapped up to his feet, looking over the gardens. 

“Are you fast?”

He was so beautiful, I felt like I was not speaking to a human but something more, beyond mortal.

I nodded. 

“Let us race then!”

He pulled at my hands until I stood upright and led me to the plowed soft sand fields. I had heard he was fast, like a horse. But I was tall for my age, long and I wanted to win. Surely, I could beat him. 

He counted, and when he signaled to go, I jumped forward quickly like a frightened rabbit from the underbrush. 

He passed me as if I was not moving at all. His tunic flashed like the tail of a deer, and I could only watch as he made it across the line that marked the end of the track.

I stared at him, breathing hard when I made my way to him.

He hardly looked flushed, his chest did not heave as mine did. 

“You are faster than the others, but not as fast as me.” He told me, arrogant and full of pride. 

I looked down at his feet, bare like mine. How could he be so fast?

“Let us try again.” I told him. My body was weak, I had not eaten in days. But my blood ran now, I could be faster.

He grinned and returned to my side, pointing back at the start. 

“Go!” He shouted and we ran again, ran so hard I didn't breath, didnt think, just pushed my body to stretch closer to the end. 

He beat me again.

He was faster then light, faster than breath. I got ready again, though my body was beginning to ache. I knew somehow I could not beat him.

Still, I tried. 

The boy beat me again. He was so much smaller, I burned with anger. I was not often angry, though I was raised as a prince, I had no need to be cruel and angry like my father. But this…

“Again.” I demanded. He nodded and I lost once more.

“Again!” Now, my voice was rising. He frowned but did as I said. 

He was so close, just a stone's throw ahead of me. I focused on his tunic. If I could just grab hold of his tunic. 

The goal gave me speed, gave me the last ounce of strength. I reached forward and caught his tunic. We tumbled to the ground, and even though my hand twisted I did not let go. 

“I caught you.” I said through pants. 

He was panting too, his face was red and bewildered. 

“You…”

I let go of his tunic, flushing red up to my ears in embarrassment. I still had not beat him. “I'm sorry.”

“No one has ever caught me.” He said, his voice no more than a whisper. Pride filled me, I felt warm all over like I had dipped into a drawn bath. “No one?”

He shook his head, his eyes still wide. He looked less divine, more human this way. “Not ever.”

We sat up together, side by side. He took my hand again. I grasped his back. 

The moon was high now, the rumble from the grandhall quieting. There was much to say, yet I felt like I did not wish to break the silence, comfortable and warm. I was still delighted at being the only one to capture this beautiful boy. 

“Perhaps we shall see each other again,son of Menoetius.” he said suddenly as of also realizing that their brief time together was coming to an end.

“Lance.” I told him abruptly, the name tumbling from my lips like spilled wine. “That’s the name my mother would call me. Not Patroclus. Lance.” It was my dearest held secret. Not even my father knew of this name. I wanted him to have something special of me as well. “And I hope we can see each other again.”

He nodded. He understood this was important. “ _ Lance _ .” He said, his mouth tasting the word, rolling it his mouth like a savory fruit. It felt right, a stone set into a foundation.

“Keith, then.” He replied, smiling. “Not Achilles. That is what my mother calls me. Swift footed. Keith.”

I felt our connection like corded ropes, tight and strong. I would not forget him. 

“Keith.” I said, whispered. He looked delighted. 

People drifted to the gardens. The sound of women panting and whimpering. I knew it was time to go. I stood. 

“I shall not see you at your departure.” I told him. “I am a shame for my father.”

“I dislike him.” Keith said, wrinkling his beautiful face. 

“I do too. Even if he is my father.” I confessed. 

“I wish you could come with me. My father is kind. He allows all boys to come into his care. He wishes for me to find a companion.”

I thought of it for a moment, thought for one joyous moment of living with Keith, racing with him and laughing with him. It looked so much like a dream I could not fit it into my reality. 

“I will pray for it.” I finally said.

He nodded and then, squeezing my hand, he left.

I returned to my room. For the first time in the whole week, I felt hope. 

I felt happy.

I prayed. 

I prayed the fates for once would be kind to me.


	2. Everyone Agrees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt his eyes like the sun, felt like a rolling wave took me under a wayward current. I grinned at him.  
> Startled, he frowned and then slowly his marked face gave way to joy, his teeth white and straight save for two sharp incisors.  
> I could not look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline jumps but don't worry. Will see why Lance is suddenly with Keith. And why Keith doesnt remember him.

I heard whispers of him the moment he was placed among us. Often I didn't care enough to notice if any new boy appeared among the ranks of youth pathetic faces. But, something they said caught my interest. 

“He’s so ugly.” they had told me, and i had laughed. All were ugly to me. I could not tell one face from another, i did not know any of the boys who cajoled or ramble around by name, nor did i care to learn. I knew they only sought my attention so desperately for the right to perhaps be chosen for my companion, for the honor of being at the right hand of one who will do great things, greater than the heroes of before. 

 

The whispers of the boy intrigued me. So at supper I asked. “ Who do you speak of?”

The boys fought to answer. “Patroclus. There.” they pointed, and I followed the line of their fingers to the corner of our grandroom to a solitary table. There, almost in the shadows; alone, was a boy.

I knew this boy. We had spoken for a moment when I hung from a tree a few days ago. His face had been delighted when we spoke but as I shrugged him off, he grew cold and shadowed.  

He must've of been close to my age, his hair was like rain beaten bark. But his face was what I was truly interested in, looked forward to seeing what these boys would consider as ugly. Would he have a scar? Deformed lips and nose? I had seen deformed men before, when I joined my father for a delegation to Sparta. There they thought malfomalites were something to be admired and worshiped. 

The boy's face was not malformed. His nose was sharp, his eyes brilliant blue, sparkling even in the low flame light, his lips were uneven, the lower thicker and plumper then the top, both soft pink. 

But I could see why they called him ugly. 

The boy had a thousand mark across his face, like the reverse of the midnight, if the stars were dark, the night sky bright.

“See!” They told me, nudging each other like the young stupid boys they were. “See!? Hideous! Everyone agrees so.”

I said nothing, looking at him. The boy felt my gaze, he must’ve for he looked up. His eyes were fringed with a thick line of lashes, darker than his hair. He held my gaze for a moment, eyes blue as the river I dipped in the summer to wash away the dust from training. 

His face was interesting. I had no blemishes anywhere upon my body. For every cut or nick I received, the skin healed too fast for a scar to remain. The servants, when they bathed me, remarked on my fair skin, and how bright it shone against the dark of my hair, how it was without any blemish. 

This boy was filled with them, so many I couldn't begin to attempt to count. 

“I see.” I said, and the boy looked away, down to his hands where he ripped apart bread between thin fingers. That bothered me. Not many of the boys met my eyes, true, but this one was a rare one that held it. His eyes had been full of something, a quiet fighting. I was intrigued. 

I did not find him hideous. The marks made him interesting, memorable. Its stirred familiarity within me. 

_ I have seen this boy before”  _ Something within the stirring said. 

But then the servants came forth and took of our plates and scraps. I stood with the boys, racing to the courtyard as they chased behind. 

I did not forget about the boy. The next day, I ventured closer, the day after closer still. I would glance at him, more annoyed each time I saw that the boy indeed would look away as soon as we met eyes. Soon enough he stopped looking altogether. Finally, I sat in his place in the coldest most dreary part of the grandhall, and the crowd of admirers sat with me, following like stray dogs looking for scraps. I watched him as he entered, curious to know if he would brave to force himself at the table he had claimed. 

Patroclus frowned hard at the sight of me, and something in me flared like embers to tinder. No one looked at me like that, with such disdain. I didn't know what to do with such look. 

The boy set his chin, and strode over, sitting in his designated spot. I was not surprised. I had known somehow that the boy would not snivel back quietly. 

He ate and kept to himself, and when the servers came to collect their food, the boy had not looked at me once. 

He had the pride of a prince, even in the ratty tunic that adorned his thin dark body, he still held an innate sense regality. I wondered where he had learned it from. 

Nothing had held my interest more than the boy in so long. My mother told me to ignore such a creature. An orphaned mortal who was too simple to recognize that I was a half god and should not be disrespected. I disagreed with her although I did not voice this. 

When I saw Patroclus next, I felt the need to keep his attention. I wished for reactions from him, petulant and annoyed at how he would turn away and not be mystified by me, as all others were. I hadn't heard him laugh once, nor smile, his lips sealed tight.

The boys jeered around me and so I sat upon the table, and took figs from a serving bowl. They clapped and laughed, knowing what I was to do. I saw Patroclus look as I threw the figs neatly, one then two, juggling them in the air. 

Mother disapproved of this, said it was beneath me. I had been drawn to it the first time I had seen a man in a fellow court do, liking how it captured attention.

Balancing the figs, I kept them in a perfect circle, and the boys praised me. I looked and saw Patroclus looking wide eyes at me. 

I felt his eyes like the sun, felt like a rolling of a wave took me under a wayward current. I grinned at him. 

Startled, he frowned and then slowly his marked face gave way to joy, his teeth white and stright save for two sharp incisors. 

I could not look away. 

“Catch.” I called out at him, flicking and a fig fell from the circle of my hands and into his. His palms were cupped and he lifted them to capture the fruit. He looked down at it and then back to me. 

I caught the figs one by one, not glancing at them, feeling their trajectory on instinct. I dropped them back into the serving bowl, and plucked the fig from his hand, biting it. Juices spilled from my mouth, dribbling down my chin. 

He kept looking at me, wonder in his gaze.

It was different than the other boys though. While they looked at me with hope for their future fame. When Patroclus looked at me it was guarded, challenging, lit with fire. I felt like if I asked something of him right now, he would turn his nose at me, refuse if it didn't suit his own wishes. I felt that from no one. 

Not even my father or mother refused me anything. 

The servants filtered about, collecting our plates and cups. The boy stood from the table and walked away, not glancing at me again. 

He almost seemed angry at me. I wondered what I ever could have done wrong.

Still, he was nothing but another boy among many. I was Achilles, swifted footed and half-god. I shouldn't have to concern myself with the approval of one orphan. 

I knew this and yet I still sat at his table, and still wished for his eyes. 

When I did get his attention it was with acquiesce, which felt somewhat worse than being ignored. 

 

I never really spoke to him. I had no words to say, and i had never been great at them. I let the other boys chat and talk, reveling in their foolishness. Mostly i did not listen to them. Their constant words was like the buzzing of bees, fatiguing me until I felt I had to hit something.

It wasn't until wandered into the great Hall to speak to my father about new spears that I overheard talk of him.

Cryrons, the man who oversaw the army of boys that lived in my father care was telling the king of news. 

I heard Patroclus’ name and stilled. 

“He's been skipping morning drills.” He said, his voice ever patient.

“Oh?” My father said. “Are we sure of this? He is not sick.”

“I do not know my Lord, the spar master is upset. He wants the boy beaten to set an example.”

“I see.” The king replied. Then he nodded. “Do as you must. They must learn young that they should not bite the hand that feeds them.”

I crept away, my mind racing and imagining the boys dark skin covered in whip lashes and bruises. It made me sick for some reason.

I searched for him all morning, until I pulled my wits and asked the servants. They always knew everything. 

The servant had paused, blinking quickly and I knew she was about to lie. 

“I need to tell him something, that is all.” O said and her face caved with slight relief. I should've felt annoyed at it. I did not. I only wondered why they would want to protect him. 

“He hides in the storerooms, my Lord, behind the grain jars.”

I nodded and went forth to look for him. 

He was exactly where she had said, folded into the shelf behind tall jars of unmilled bran and wheat. 

“Patroclus” I said. He looked up from where he was pressing his forehead to his folded arms. He looked odd, his dark rich skin looking sickly and there was darkness under his eyes. He was sweating, even though the storeroom was cool. “I was looking for you.”

He frowned at me, his arms tightening over his knees.

“And you have found me.”

I nodded. Now I had no more words to say. I had intended to find him but now that I had, I knew not how to warn him of what i knew.

His appearance was concerning me. “Are you sick?” I asked. Questions were easy. Demanding answers was even easier.

He looked away from me. “I am not.” 

He looked sick, but I did not argue with him. 

“Then why have you missed all the drills? If you are not sick?”

He straightened at that, his mouth going slack. I could see guilt in those brilliant blue eyes. 

“How do you know I've been missing? You never attend the spare either.”

His tone was accusing. I felt my skin prickle.

“Your caretaker told my father. Since you are not sick, you will be punished.” I told him. His lips drew in, his white teeth bit at his pink lip. “You will be beaten.”

It was difficult to think about, the boy on the stone steps before the throne, his back bare and bathed in light before a whip would cut into his skin, his cry of pain echoing. 

The boy clenched his fingers.  

“What will you tell them? If you are not sick what reason will you have to escape punishment?” I was curious as well. 

He looked up, his face pulling with fear but still he held my gaze.

“Tell them I was with you.” he demanded in a voice that sounded too much like my own. “You are the Prince. They will not object.”

I was shocked. He was asking  _ me _ , the prince of this palace and a loyal son, to lie for  _ him _ , an orphaned weak child with nothing to call his own. 

“I will not.” I replied, my mouth moving oddly in my bewilderment. 

“Why not?” He asked, almost sounding affronted. “It will do you no harm.”

His lashes were so thick and curled, shielding his eyes as he blinked. The color of his eyes was so peculiar, so so blue. I couldn't quite place it in anywhere in the world and yet they felt familiar. 

“I do not lie.”

Patroclus frowned, “Not ever?”

I shook my head. I never had needed too. Besides, my mother was a goddess. She already knew all.

He sighed, his mouth slanting. “Then take me with you to your classes. And so it will not be a lie but truth.”

I was once again shocked at his words. He did not seem pleading or apologetic. He almost demanded, said this in such a matter of fact manner that I let my mouth go soft, dropping open. I looked over him, his thin shoulders and skinny arms, brown as baked bread. His hair was a ragged ruffled mess, his lips wet and pink. Everyone one of his marks could be made out in the mid morning sunlight streaming through the window. I wanted to question why, and how he dared to ask of me such thing, but no one asked me things, no one demanded anything from me. I suddenly felt like complying, especially if it would keep those eyes on me. At least, until I understood why they made me feel how I did right now. 

“Come then” I told him.

His eyes widened at me, and then he leaned away as I outstretched my hand to him.

He left me like that for a moment, his eyes distrustful. I do not know why but I wanted him to like me and keep looking at me. 

He took my hand and I felt the warmth from his fingers spread up my arm to pool in my throat. 

I did not want to let go, so I did not as I turned and started to the my Lyre lessons, pulling him behind. 

He went, quietly. 

His gaze burned the back of my neck. 

I loved it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasnt clear.... Lance isn't ugly. He just has freckles. That was a thing in some countries. Their loss.

**Author's Note:**

> @DipuC_  
> Please read The Song of Achilles. Please.


End file.
